the death of ana sweet


i was attracted to her like
lightning
to a lightning bug.

because she always said the things i wanted to hear.

	(you’re such a sweetheart.
	take your shirt off, it’s hot in here.
	i love you.)

very few could assuage my angst
so effortlessly, with little more than the
palm of her hand on my back.

	(just relax; you’re mine.)

every time she left me i’d bury my face into
the pillow where she pressed her neck,
just to smell the subtle aroma
of her sweat.

sometimes she wouldn’t wear
perfume and i swear
i couldn’t tell the difference.

the pictures still collect dust on the
drawer next to my bed, because i never
felt the need to disguise their beauty.

	(i hate cameras; they make me look ugly.)

yet i felt the hush overcome me one sweaty
midsummer’s eve, when her mouth
finally stopped moving.

	(where are you going?  don’t leave me.)

my stomach squelched with heartache, thoughts
frantic and unrelenting, waiting for the last
death blow to strike from behind.

i felt nothing.

my veins carried the sweetness of her every breath
through my body, keeping with the pulse
of a sterile heart.

she never saw it coming.





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